Sold To The Mafia's Boss

Chapter Six: Safe with me

Carmela's POV

The master suite felt like stepping into another world entirely. The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind us with a finality that made my stomach drop. Dark paneling lined the walls, thick velvet drapes blocked most of the moonlight, and a massive four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, as if waiting to swallow someone whole. The air carried Giovanni's scent: sandalwood, crisp linen, and a sharper undercurrent — maybe gun oil or the faint metallic tang of power itself. Everything here was built to remind you who held the power. Even the silence felt like it cost something, the kind of quiet that only exists behind walls thick enough to hide whatever happens on the other side of them. A single lamp burned near the bed, throwing long shadows across the ceiling, and somewhere beneath the floorboards I could hear the house settling into itself, as old houses do when the day is finally over.

Giovanni stood near the door, watching me with those pale blue eyes that always seemed to cut straight through whatever mask I tried to wear. He didn't speak at first. Instead, he loosened his tie with slow, deliberate movements, the silk whispering against his collar. He set his cufflinks down on the dresser one at a time, the small metallic click of each one absurdly loud in the silence. Then came his jacket, shrugged off his shoulders and dropped over the back of a chair like he had all night and I had none. The simple action felt strangely intimate, like I was seeing a version of him no one else was allowed to witness — unhurried, at ease in a room that made my skin prickle just standing in it.

"You'll sleep here tonight," he said finally, his voice low and matter-of-fact, leaving no room for argument.

I turned to face him fully, arms wrapped tight around my middle as if that could hold me together. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "And where will you sleep?"

His gaze didn't waver. "With you. For your safety."

Heat rushed to my face — fear and something warmer I refused to name, tangled together until I couldn't tell them apart. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. My fists curled at my sides. "I don't need—"

"You do." He took one step closer, then another, until he was towering over me. His presence filled the room, heavy and impossible to ignore. "Someone slipped past every guard I have and left blood on your pillow while you slept. Until I find who did it, you stay where I can protect you."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream that this wasn't protection — it was just another cage, another way to control the girl whose father had already sold her off like a piece of furniture. But the memory of that pale figure standing in the garden rose up before I could stop it. She hadn't moved when the guards' flashlights swept the hedges. She hadn't flinched, hadn't run — just stood there watching my window like she had all the time in the world, before slipping back into the dark like she was never there at all. Even the next morning, none of the guards would look at me straight on, like they'd seen something they still didn't have words for, something that made even armed men uneasy. The memory made the words stick in my throat. My hands were trembling when I finally nodded and climbed into the massive bed, pressing myself as far to one side as possible. The sheets were cool against my skin, almost cold, and I pulled the blanket up to my chin like it could shield me from everything.

Giovanni lay down on the other side, still fully clothed. The silence between us stretched out, thick and heavy with everything we hadn't said. I could feel the heat radiating from his body even from this distance. My own body betrayed me in the worst way — a slow, unwelcome ache low in my belly, an awareness of him that made my pulse jump and my skin tingle. I hated it. I hated how aware I was of the sharp line of his jaw in the dim light, the way his shirt stretched across his broad chest, the quiet strength in his hands resting on the blanket. This man had bought me like property, yet here I was, lying in his bed, feeling things I had no right to feel. I pressed my eyes shut, trying to summon something like anger to hold onto, but it kept slipping through my fingers, replaced by the steady warmth just inches away. I told myself it was exhaustion, that fear did strange things to the body, made it crave comfort even from the source of the danger. I told myself a lot of things that night that I didn't quite believe.

I turned away, staring at the dark wall, willing sleep to come. It didn't. Every small sound in the old estate made me flinch — the creak of floorboards settling, the distant murmur of guards outside, wind pushing against the shutters like it wanted in. Somewhere further off, a dog barked twice and went quiet. The soft rhythm of Giovanni's breathing beside me was the only steady thing in the whole dark house. My mind kept racing. Why had my father really done this? What did Giovanni truly want from me beyond the alliance I was only now beginning to suspect existed? And why, despite everything, did a small, stupid part of me feel safer lying here next to him than I had in my own home? I thought of my own bedroom, the locks that had never once kept my father's temper out, and wondered when safety had become something I no longer knew how to recognize on my own.

Hours must have passed. The room grew darker, the silence deeper. At some point, I heard him shift, just slightly, and I froze, certain he'd say something about the distance I'd put between us on the bed. He didn't. He only let out a slow breath, like a man settling in for a long watch rather than a night's rest, and the quiet stretched on again. Then I felt it — his hand brushing mine under the sheets. It could have been accidental. But he didn't pull away, and neither did I. His fingers were warm, strong, steady. For one weak, traitorous moment, I let them lace with mine, letting that small point of contact anchor me when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control. His thumb moved in a slow, soothing circle against the back of my hand, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

Giovanni's voice came soft in the darkness, barely above a whisper. "You're safe with me, Carmela. I swear it."

I didn't answer. But I didn't let go of his hand either. Some quiet, stubborn part of me wanted it to be true so badly it scared me almost as much as the blood on my pillow had. Safety had never come easily to me, and here it was, offered by the last man on earth who should have been able to give it — and somehow that made it feel more real, not less. And for the first time since I'd been brought to this house, I fell into a restless sleep feeling something close to safe — and something far more unsettling — the first stirrings of want. His hand was still curled around mine when the first gray light crept beneath the drapes, and some small, foolish part of me wasn't ready to let it go.